


For the Sake of Release

by Nimravidae



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Captured!Ben, Choking, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rope Bondage, Sex Crying, Trading Sex for Freedom, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Ben is captured in a painfully embarrassing way, and since he is of little use currently to Major John Andre - he connives a trade for his immediate release.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/gifts).



> For Poose, on this, the occasion of her birth.   
> An Aside: Poose is, without a doubt, one of the most incredible people I know and I'm so incredibly lucky to be able to call her a friend and my #internetmom which i mean, I wrote porn for her which might be weird now that I said that but w/e here we are. There aren't many people as beautiful, talented, and incredibly warm-hearted as she is, and she deserves every nice and kind thing that has happened, should happen, and will happen to her. 
> 
> A Warning: Mind the Tags

There is no light. 

Or if there is, it remains hidden so stubbornly behind the veil of cloth wrapped tightly ‘round Benjamin Tallmadge’s eyes. He tries, in vain, once more to wriggle his hands free from their constraints but just as before, and the time before that, there is nothing to be done to break away at the knots that bind him. And, from what he can feel, there are many. He cannot part his legs, not from the ankle, nor knee, nor thigh - but he can extend them out. He cannot, as demonstrated already, separate his hands from where they are firmly secured behind his back - nor can he attempt to bring his legs up and through them, as another rope connects firmly ‘round his middle to force them to stay snug against his back. 

He is, effectively, immobilized, blinded and muted. A cloth between his lips finishes the wrapping efficiently as he lies half-curled on his side. 

He had been distracted, laid low by such a familiar and aged ruse as a feminine, distressed shriek in the distance. It was a trap, one that his thickly vein side assumes was set for himself specifically. He had been traveling alone, unhurried - someone must have informed the enemy. It's the only explanation, and Ben is caught in the webbing of thinking of just who would know the exact time and date of his departure when he hears the familiar sound of a heavy door shutting. 

His heart stops. 

He hadn't heard it open. He hadn't heard footsteps, he hadn't heard  _ anything.  _ The floor beneath him feels rougher, like each individual splinter is jabbing through his clothes, as the adrenaline and fear floods his system. He should have been paying more attention, he should have counted the footsteps, counted the people - remembered where they walked to. Plotted his escape, he can discover who their leak was once he was safe returned to camp. 

Embarrassingly, he startles when hands land heavy on his shoulders. Whoever they belong to has light enough steps that Ben was too deafened by the roaring of blood in his ears and the thudding of his own heart hard against his breast. The hands, hot and firm through the wool of his jacket, haul him and Ben throws everything he has left in himself into the fight. Though, it is rather unmatched and - despite fervent wriggling and attempts to kick his captor with his tightly bound legs - he is forced up to sitting as properly as he can against the wall. 

“There you go,” says a voice above him. It isn’t malicious, at least not in tone or candor. Something strikes Ben as familiar, like there’s a story he’s been told that he can’t quite recall. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of dressing your head wound. You were quite the nasty one to catch Major Tallmadge.” 

Head wound? Yes, he’s felt the dull throb of an ache but he wasn’t aware he’d been rendered bloody by the clobbering. He supposes the answer was not made for a response, so he attempts to give none. He instead stays resolutely silent. They’ll be time, he thinks, for shouting later.

“Though, I must admit I have you at the disadvantage, sir. I know your name, your rank, the little family you have left in Setauket…” He trails to nothing at Ben’s sharp intake of breath. 

This distant creature knows him, knows his  _ father.  _ He snarls bitterly, and uselessly, against the gag.

There’s a shift. A creak. And the voice is closer, nearly level with him to the floor now. “I will not harm him, there is no such honor in that and, if you know me, Major Tallmadge, you would already be aware that I hold my honor in very high regard. I will undo your blindfolds now, but none the rest of your bindings.”

Ben doesn’t flinch when the wool of a sleeve scrapes his ear - but he does tilt his head forward, and as promised, the fabric falls away. There is not just one candle, he finds once his eyes adjust, but three glowing softly from a candelabra across this dingy room. It seems less like the hut in the woods that Ben had been envisioning and more as though it is a room in some tavern somewhere. There is a small bed, a writing desk and a chair. The desk itself is currently serving as a small table, holding a blade, a bottle of wine and two glasses. Little else but those things, Ben and his captor, whom he slowly begins to recognize from the passing description. A boyishness to his face, a glimmer in his eye, and the blond braid that hangs from his queue. 

“Major Andre,” he attempts to say behind his gag, but it is muffled and distorbed.

“Right you are,” the man says nonetheless, “I must admit you have not quite had the mindfulness to adhere to my plan to capture you.”

“My mistake, good sir,” Ben responds, dryly, but it comes out more like  _ mm mhmch, ghhh suh.  _ There is a small amount of comfort, however cold and hollow it may be, in being bested by a man like John Andre. At least it was no scouting party or feckless officer. 

He doesn’t acknowledge Ben’s mumbling, but instead Andre continues with the conversation as wholly one-sided as it is. “See, I had been informed that you were to leave camp without your uniform, thus making your capture in enemy territory a justifiable sentence for a hanging. But you decided to forgo the change, I see.”

All the bitterness that had flooded Ben previously drains to ice in his veins. A hanging. He had nearly changed from his uniform that morning, he had only made the last-moment decision not to in an effort to ward off the chill of the day. His officers jacket was the warmest clothing he had, he had no other reason to abandon it. Had it been warmer, had there been no gusting winds - he would be swinging from the gallows by daybreak. 

His breath comes sharp through his nose and his throat swells ‘round the panic. 

No, no. He is in uniform, he cannot be hanged as a spy like this. Andre clicks his tongue and straightens from where he’s previously been lowering himself to be on level with Ben. “Shame you went and devastated my plan. Now you’re of practically no use to me.”

Andre crosses the room and Ben keeps a level gaze upon him. No use? He is a Major, he is the  _ intelligence Major,  _ in Washington’s army. Surely he must be of some use. Andre fills both glasses and for a moment, Ben’s eyes flicker to the door. His momentary chill of fear is noticed, however and Andre comments.

“No one else will be joining us.” He takes both glasses in hand and returns. “You are not useful to me in this state Benjamin, do you mind if I call you Benjamin? You are of no use to me because I know you will never give me the names of your spies. You are of no use to me because I know keeping you captive would only ensure Washington’s trading of you, and once you are recieved you’ll have more information that I’d like to pass along. Which is why you are here, with me, instead of in the British camps at this moment.”

There is a pause and Ben lets his eyes search for Andre for just a fleeting moment. He feels betrayed that this man is not only as beautiful as described, but just as hideously brilliant. He feels betrayed that he feels flattered by the insinuation that Ben could derive all the information he needs from being prisoner. He tells himself it is only nature to feel a twinge of pride in his chest. 

This time, when Andre reaches for Ben, he flinches. And he hates himself more for doing such, but it cannot be undone. Not the motion, more the reaction of Andre. He pulls his hand back a moment and his face twists into something not unkind.

Slower, this time, he pulls the gag from between Ben’s teeth and lets it hang loose around his throat. Then, he holds up the still full and unused glass and gestures with it.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, clearing his throat once, then twice, and parting his dry, cracked lips before pressing them shut again in contemplation. What should he say? Release me? He wets his lips, all too knowledgeable of the way Andre’s eyes flicker down to them, the gleam surely just a trick of the candlelight. 

“If I am useless to you, sir,” he croaks, but does not let the rawness of his voice dissuade him, “why keep me alive?”

Andre’s response is a curl of his lip in the corner. “You have dealt with very little men of honor in your new role. There is no use to your capture, and I must admit there is an incredible amount of use in your death. But to kill you like this? Like a hog set to slaughter?” He doesn’t need to finish his sentiment, the disbelief alone a suitable indicator. 

Ben only has one last question regarding his status, then. “Then why am I still here? Why take me at all?”

“I thought it was due time we met.”

“I won’t tell you anything, Major Andre.”

“Oh, I know. Would you like a drink?” 

Ben eyes the glass in his hand warily. Then shifts, as well as he can in his bonds, away. 

Andre rolls his eyes. “It’s not poisoned.”

“And you’d tell me if it as?”

Something intriguing floods his guts as Andre sighs in a way that is too close to warmly affectionate that anything else. “Look,” he commands and Ben looks and he drinks once from the glass, making a point of swallowing and suddenly Ben’s eyes are drawn to the length of his throat. Everyone had said that as brilliant and dangerous as Andre was, he was even more beautiful. Ben’s mesmerized, shifting forward instead, and pressing his lips against the cool rim. He can still see the faint imprint on the other side, or perhaps he is imagining it and his mind - it must be fuzzed and hazed and settled into wrongness from the blow he’d taken to his head. Andre tips the glass slowly, letting Ben draw his fill before he retreats with it. 

A droplet of wine catches on his lip and before it can run, Andre’s thumb is there, whisking it away. Both men take their pause.

Andre, with his fingers curled beneath his jaw and his thumb resting just below the rise of his lip. Ben’s eyes draw up his arm, over his face to look directly into Andre’s gaze as he dips and twists his head just faintly and takes the thumb between his lips. It takes more of skin and flesh than wine, but that is just as fulfilling. The eyes he watches grow into confusion, then intrigue, then settling into a wonderment - and Ben thinks, if this trips the great Andre into submission, perhaps he can devise his own way to freedom. 

He closes his lips ‘round the finger and gives it a gentle suck, tongue playing against the salty-sweet skin. It’s only when Andre twitches that Ben retreats, settling his head back with a coy curl of his lips. “Perhaps you are right. It is time we made eachothers acquaintance, sir. I must admit, I have been thinking of this meeting for some time.”

Andre’s smile is wolfish, teeth reflecting off the candlelight. “As have I, good sir.”

“Unfortunately, being bound on your floor was not how I envisioned such a thing. Perhaps if you-”

“No.”

Ben’s stomach sinks. And Andre continues, “I cannot release you from your ropes, Major Tallmadge. Or, I will not. You understand, why.”

Unfortunately, Ben does. And he says as such, head falling forward as Andre pulls back and stands. It would be easy to want him, he thinks, if the reality of their ways was undone. But it’s hard to want his enemy, even standing before him, even resting his hand softly on Ben’s hair.

“Though,” he says, slowly from above him. And Ben looks up, hope filtering into his eyes, “should you still wish this go as it had in your thoughts - there are ways.” His fingers trace down Ben’s cheek, his jaw, his lips. 

And he knows what Andre wants, what Ben is more than willing to trade. He swallows once and says, “I do.”

Andre’s hand leaves his face and instead gently tugs the ribbon that holds Ben’s loosening que free and buries his fingers in his sweat-matted hair. He brings Ben’s face to his groin, and Ben shifts his hips back to give himself the leverage needed to press his cheek along the hardening length. Andre’s breath hitches and Ben can feel his plan solidifying. He breaths hot against him, then finds the end of his cock through the rough fabric of his breeches and laves his tongue over it. This time, he hears a muffled noise.

He isn’t offered much time to tease and taunt, but it is fine. Ben has had the men he’s done this to before rush desperately. Hurried in abandoned lakes or between meetings with Hamilton or Washington, he’s taken men into his mouth faster and with much less finesse than Andre is willing to offer him. He even feels himself take interest as Andre gives a gentle, sharp tug of his hair to move him back. Surely, his shiver cannot go unnoted. 

“You have done this before,” Andre says - a statement, not a question. 

And Ben breathes his answer, “Yes. Many times.”

“So the rumors of Washington’s whores are true?”

His breath comes in a crude laugh, and though he isn’t quite honest, he must admit he is not far from the truth when he responds, “If only, sir.”

The rumors, he wishes, were that Washington showed preferential treatment to his bed-warmers. But the man is anything if not fair and stern.

Andre undoes his breeches with his free hand, pulling his cock - now at least mostly hardened - free and letting Ben decide his next move. Kindly, of course, Ben does not make him wait. He slides his slick lips along the length of his shaft first - letting the head rub wetly across his cheek - then replaces that with his tongue and follows down to lap at his stones.

He won’t include this in his report, though he will tell Washington and Washington will cup his cheek and ask if he is well time and time again. Washington will kiss his forehead, his lips, his throat and then refuse to touch him for nights on end. But it is worth it, Ben knows, the faster he returns the faster he can place himself back in the man’s favor and in his bed. Once he feels Andre’s hand tighten in his hair, Ben turns his attention to the flushed and leaking cockhead before him. He suckles it, pressing his tongue against the underside, then to collect the bitter fluid that wells at the slit. Andre’s hips shift and Ben looks up at him beneath lashes he knows are thick and lovely. He slackens his jaw, and lets his mouth hang more - an invitation to thrust forward into the slick heat of his mouth, and Andre accepts. He fucks Ben’s mouth slowly, at first, seeing how deep he can go before he brushes against his throat and Ben shifts to allow him in. 

“You certainly are something wonderful,” Andre whispers, as though he doesn’t mean for Ben to hear. But he does and his cheeks burn and Andre presses his cock deeper. He’s thick, not as thick as Washington is nor as thin as the Marquis, but he still stretches Ben’s lips just enough and slides deep and insistent. 

It isn’t until until Andre hits deep on a particularly rough thrust - the illusion of a gentlemen vanished and replaced instead by simply a man on the brink of carnal release - that Ben chokes. Andre hits wrong and deep and Ben gags once, then twice and Andre does not stop. The tears that had welled from exertion clump in his lashes and spill over - hot down his cheeks in a way Ben hates how deeply he loves. Andre fists his hand in Ben’s hair and chokes him once more upon his cock, and then again, and then again - until a hot rush of seed spurts down his throat and all Ben can manage is a gargled, desperate plea for air.

When it’s given - pulled roughly off of Andre’s cock - he coughs desperately, muscles aching and lungs burning as he thuds back to the ground on his side. 

Somewhere, Andre pants, fixes himself and then finishes his own glass of wine. 

“Truly something,” he comments, the awed praise torn from his voice. Ben waits for him to approach. He doesn’t. “I’m going to leave,” he says instead. “You may too, sir, should you be able to free yourself of your confinements.”

Ben draws in a ragged breath, disbelief blossoming in his gut. He must be kidding, he can’t plan on leaving Ben here? Surely he doesn’t mean it.

But Ben opens his eyes again and through the watery haze, he sees Andre take up both glasses and the bottle - the blade already affixed back to his person. 

“Oh, and I may offer this, as it is only fair - this place is abandoned. Do not waste your energy screaming for help.”

There’s a pause, as Ben cannot find an insult, a curse, a vow harsh enough for the indignant fury that fills his blood. 

Andre offers one last thought as he slips through the door, “I do hope to see you again, Benjamin.”

And Benjamin finds himself in very much the same position he was in before, though with the added benefit of an ache in his groin and a rage in his chest.


End file.
